


Fragments

by grimark



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Clubbing, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Humor, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimark/pseuds/grimark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adoribull prompt fills and fic snippets from my tumblr.</p><p>Chapter 1: Frankenstein AU<br/>Chapter 2: Very, very loosely inspired by Breakfast at Tiffany's<br/>Chapter 3: Inception AU. Bull is hired to perform a job on the son of a Tevinter politician.<br/>Chapter 4: Death can't keep a good necromancer down.<br/>Chapter 5: Modern AU where Bull is a bouncer.<br/>Chapter 6: Dorian finds Bull's intelligence a turn-on<br/>Chapter 7: A group of mercenaries kidnap Dorian, and ask him for a magical favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balsam and Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/137311595337).

_Every noble family in Tevinter intermarries to try and distill perfection. Perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. A perfect leader, to renew the Tevinter of old._ \- Dragon Age: Inquisition

_The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind_ \- Frankenstein (or, the Modern Prometheus)

 

When the Bull finds a stack of neatly chopped wood sitting outside the door of the cabin just as he was going outside to chop some himself, he doesn’t think much of it.

“Hey,” he calls out to the Chargers. They are sitting around the cabin’s sole room, a few of them engaged in some useful pursuit, but most just killing time.

“Did any of you chop this wood?”

Bull gets a few vaguely interested glances, but otherwise no response.

“Hey, you lot!” he repeats. Bull doesn’t exactly stand on ceremony in his company, but when he asks his boys a direct question, he tends to expect an answer.

“Who chopped this wood?”

“Maybe you chopped it and forgot about it, Chief,” says Krem, glancing up from where he’s darning a hole in somebody’s sock.

“You must be getting old, forgetting shit like that,” snickers Dalish.

Bull lets it go. His knee’s been giving him a bit of pain lately- probably one of his boys chopped it to save him the trouble, and didn’t want to own up for fear of looking like a suck-up. That’s okay.

 

The next two days, it’s someone else’s turn to fetch and chop wood, but nobody has to. It’s already been done for them. By the fourth day, when a side of dead deer turns up alongside the customary stack of firewood, Bull starts to get really fucking suspicious.

If one of his boys had left the cabin for long enough to hunt and butcher a deer, he’s pretty sure he would have noticed.

“Don’t question it, Chief,” says Krem. “Just eat it. It’s been forever since we had fresh meat.”

“Grim, Skinner,” says Bull. “I want you two to head out and take a look around the area for anything suspicious. And I want two people on watch at all times tonight.”

The Chargers grumble a bit, but accept his orders. Grim and Skinner are his best trackers, and they dutifully head outside into the cold.

Bull follows them out.

 

The cabin they’re in was abandoned and somewhat rundown when they came to it, but they’ve slept in worse. It also happens to have a very good vantage point of the surrounding hills, including the route supposedly favoured by the bandit group they’ve been hired to clean up. It had seemed like the perfect spot to dig in for a week or so while they waited for the bandits to head through, but Bull hadn’t been counting on it apparently being haunted by a very helpful ghost.

The back of Bull’s neck prickles. He’s sent Skinner and Grim to check out the surrounding scrubland, down below the tree line where their wood-chopping benefactor could conceivably be hiding. But he feels like he’s overlooking something.

It’s possible he’s being paranoid. Being so close to the Tevinter border is making him twitchy. Weird shit happening near Tevinter tends to mean magic, and magic tends to mean demons.

Bull is prepared to admit he’s never heard of a demon performing household chores for a mercenary crew, but there’s a first time for everything.

 

Backing onto the main cabin is a tiny lean-to. When they first got here, several days ago, they’d sussed the place out in case it contained food or valuables. As far as Bull knew, none of them had been into it since.

It would be the perfect place to hide. Right under their noses.

The lean-to doesn’t have a door, just a filthy scrap of canvas to keep out the weather. The cramped space inside is full of leaf litter and cobwebs, just as it was when they checked it out.

There’s nobody there.

The Bull’s neck still prickles as he heads back into the main cabin. There’s something he’s missing.

 

By the time Grim and Skinner get back, they’ve got a small fire going and the cabin is filled with the scent of roasting venison. Bull had Stitches check it over thoroughly, and he had pronounced it somewhat clumsily butchered, but otherwise fine. No signs of poison or ground glass or any other kind of tampering. Bull had eventually agreed to let them eat it, though it went against his every instinct, but only because he suspected he’d face a full-on mutiny if he told them to throw it away.

“The area’s clear, Chief,” Skinner reports. “People have obviously been moving around, but it mostly looks like just us. No sign of our friend.”

Grim grunts and nudges her in the ribs. She glares at him.

“I was getting to that. We think we found signs nearby that someone butchered a deer and buried the remains.”

“So there _is_ someone around!” says Bull. Skinner rolls her eyes.

“You shouldn't’ve told him that,” Dalish complains. “Now he’s going to get all paranoid.”

“Double the watch,” Bull repeats. “I want someone looking out for the bandits, and someone looking out for our visitor. And I don’t want to hear anyone whingeing about it.”

 

Bull wakes the next morning having kept his own watch for most of the night, only sleeping a few hours before dawn. He dropped off to the sound of Skinner teaching Dalish how to swear in Orlesian.

There was no sign of the bandits, or anything else, for the whole night.

There is also no wood.

The Chargers seem more than a little put out by this.

“You scared him off, Chief,” Rocky complains. For that, Bull makes him be the one to go gather wood.

 

The next couple of days are largely the same. Bull keeps his eye open, though exhaustion drags at the lid, and watches for anything unusual. Finally his watchfulness pays off, as he spots the lit torches of the bandit group proceeding along the path through the valley.

Those on watch quickly rouse the rest of the Chargers. Everyone readies their gear in near silence. Dalish, Skinner and Rocky lead the way down the hill to their ambush site.

Their brief for the job suggested these bandits were used to having the run of the area, mainly preying on defenceless towns and travellers. Most likely nothing would have been done about them if they hadn’t gotten into the habit of raiding an Orlesian merchant’s caravans. That was where the Chargers came in.

The fight is quick and brutal.

“Good work, boys,” says Bull approvingly. They are currently involved in the messy but profitable job of finishing off survivors and looting their corpses. As soon as they can head south and get paid, the better he will feel.

“We were supposed to take their leader’s head back to prove we’d done the job, right?” says Skinner. She’s got one of her knives out, and is holding it like she means to use it.

“Oh, don’t be disgusting,” says Dalish. She has the other one of Skinner’s knives, and is using it to saw the fingers off a dead bandit to more easily get at his rings.

“We just had to bring their banner back,” says Bull.

“Here, drag it in a bit of blood first, though. It looks spotless,” says Krem.

 

From there, it’s a couple of days’ walk to the nearest town, where they left their horses, and then the long ride south again. Bull actually kind of enjoys the monotony of the road, though. It’s less fun than killing stuff for money, but it’s got a comforting sort of routine.

This feeling of enjoyment lasts him all of two days.

“Please tell me one of you sorry assholes caught these,” says Bull, holding up a brace of rabbits.

“I killed them with my bow and my mystical Elven hunting skills, Chief,” says Dalish, because she thinks she’s funny. Skinner snorts.

“I think our friend’s come with us,” says Krem, sounding far more pleased about this than Bull would like.

“Aren’t any of you lot worried about this?” Bull snaps.

Krem shrugs. “They’re bringing us food and firewood, Chief. I know you’re a spy and all, but not everything has to be some kind of sinister plot.”

Shit like this just doesn’t happen in Bull’s world. People don’t just attach themselves to a bunch of mercenaries and start giving them things.

Bull thinks with a sort of vicious satisfaction that tomorrow’s the day they reach town. Let’s see this sneaky fucker try to keep up with them on horseback.

 

They’ve got enough spare coin rattling around for a night at the town’s small inn. This boosts the morale of the Chargers, since they can all get drunk and flirt with the tavern staff, and tends on average to boost the morale of the tavern staff, too.

Krem’s already disappeared, and Dalish and Skinner don’t look like they’ll be hanging around much longer either. Bull considers following their lead, but nobody’s really caught his eye. He’s content to just sit and watch his boys have fun.

They make good time the next day, and the day after. Bull feels satisfied with this, up until Skinner ruins it.

“Hey, Chief,” she says, drawing up alongside him. “Don’t get worked up about it or anything, but I think we’re being followed.”

Bull tries very hard not to get worked up about it, without much success.

“I think someone was hanging around our camp last night. Not one of us.”

“We had a watch,” says Bull, frustrated. He’d taken a turn at it himself, and hadn’t seen a thing. “How the hell didn’t we see?”

Skinner shrugs.

“Can you tell me anything about them?” Bull asks.

“There’s very few of them, possibly only one. Barefoot.”

Bull frowns. “Elven?” he asks, but Skinner shakes her head.

“Footprints looked too big. Probably too small to be a qunari, though.”

That’s a relief. Of course, just because it’s not a qunari, doesn’t mean it’s not a _Qunari_. But most viddathari are elves, anyway, and Skinner already said it’s probably not an elf.

_How the hell are they keeping up with us?_ Bull wonders. It shouldn’t be possible on foot, even if falling behind in the day and catching up at night.

 

Bull rides slower that day- taking care not to hinder the group’s progress, but lagging behind a little all the same.

That night, he swings down from the horse with a pained grunt, and does his best to look less than thrilled by their nightly fare of traveller’s tack, jerky, and bits of dried fruit.

Bull volunteers to take the first watch. He props himself up with his back to a tree, and lets the fire die down.

Bull has kept much harder vigils than this, while far more exhausted. It’s a pretty safe assumption that their follower doesn’t know that, though. He allows his eyelid to droop, and his chin to come down to rest against his chest.

Hours pass. Certainly long enough for him to go awaken the next in line for the watch. Bull sits and waits for hours yet.

 

He hears something that might be footsteps, over on the other side of the camp, and the cracking of a twig. It could be one of the Chargers getting up to take a piss. It could be just about anything.

Bull keeps his breathing slow and untroubled. He opens his eye, just a sliver.

On the other side of the campfire, now little more than ashes and weakly glowing coals, a figure crouches. The silhouette is unfamiliar. Not one of his boys.

Bull’s hand drops to grip his axe, but for reassurance, nothing more. He is wary, by generally he likes to know who he’s attacking before he starts hacking off limbs.

He is up on his feet, vaulting across the fire to tackle the apparition before it can so much as flinch. They hit the ground and Bull fully expects that to be the end of it. When the Iron Bull takes someone down, they tend to stay down, but apparently the apparition hasn’t heard so. It bucks wildly under him, actually managing to throw him off, but after a momentary scuffle Bull is back on top.

He has a human man pinned to the ground beneath him, a knee in his stomach and one hand on his throat. The man struggles briefly and then goes slack, perhaps realising how easily Bull could crush his windpipe if given cause to.

Bull looks down into a face- dark skin and pale eyes like silver coins, framed by tangled black hair. A beautiful face, but somehow an unearthly beauty. His silver-coin irises are surrounded by white all around, and his chest heaves as if terrified.

“ _Paenitet me, quaeso, miserere_ ,” says the man.

“Krem!” Bull yells. By the sounds of it, the Chargers have been woken and begun to emerge from their bedrolls, but he dares not look around.

“ _Miserere, miserere_ ,” says the man.

“What the hell, Chief?”

That’s Krem.

“I think I found our friend. And I think he’s a vint.”

Krem pauses for a moment, as the man continues to babble.

“You’re right, that sounds like Tevene,” says Krem eventually. “But it’s some weird old dialect, I can’t make out what he’s saying.”

“If he’s a vint, I say we cut his throat and burn his corpse,” says Skinner. “Just to be on the safe side.”

The man flinches wildly at the sound of her voice, and squirms around to look at her. Bull increases the pressure on his throat incrementally.

“ _Ayez pitié, s'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît,_ ” says the man. His voice is edging towards hysteria.

“Oh, good,” says Bull. “ _Tu parle Orlesian_.”

“ _Je ne sais pas_ ,” says the man. “ _Qu'est-ce que Orlesian_?”

“That’s the language you’re speaking, shit-for-brains,” says Skinner, in that same language.

“Shit-for-brains!” the man repeats, sounding delighted. “This is new. You did not teach this one to your- ah-” he glances around and gestures towards Dalish.

“My name’s Dalish,” says Dalish, who speaks just barely enough Orlesian to follow the conversation.

“Oh, are we asking each other questions?” says Bull. “Let’s start with who the fuck are you, and why are you following us?”

The man looks at him blankly, so he repeats the question on Orlesian.

“My- hm, my father meant to name me Dorian, so that is what you may call me,” says the man. “I am following you, honestly, because you are a very strange group of people.”

Bull twists his mouth. That’s a fair enough comment. “What, you were curious?” he asks.

“Yes,” says the man. “And- forgive me- people do not think me so strange, after seeing you.”

That’s- well, okay, that’s also fair enough.

“If you let me stand,” says the man, “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

Bull lets him go, somewhat reluctantly- but all the Chargers are awake now. The guy, Dorian, doesn’t seem hostile, and if he does try anything, he’s a bit outnumbered.

 

Dorian stands up. And up, and up. It hadn’t really sunk in while they were fighting, but now that he stands Bull can see the guy is fucking _massive_. He stands head and shoulders above the rest of the Chargers, and comes closer than any other human Bull’s ever met to looking him in the eye.

“Are you a vint,” says Bull. Short and to the point.

“What is a vint?” says Dorian.

“Are you a Tevinter?” Bull says.

“I have come from Tevinter, yes,” says Dorian. That wasn’t quite what Bull asked, but he’ll let it slide. Maybe Dorian’s prevaricating, or maybe it’s just his weird way of talking. He’ll figure it out eventually.

“And you’re the one who’s been following us? Leaving us wood and stuff?”

“Yes,” says Dorian. “I thought it was fair, since you have unknowingly provided me with protection, and the opportunity to learn.”

“Learn what?” Bull asks.

“This language- Orlesian, you said. Watching you talk with each other, too, and go about your business. I have learnt a lot.”

“Hang on,” Skinner buts in. “You’re saying you learnt Orlesian just from- what, from listening to me and Dalish talking in the cabin?”

“Yes,” says Dorian. He doesn’t sound like he’s boasting or exaggerating, just stating a simple fact. Like he doesn’t even get how unbelievable that sounds.

“Here’s a new word for you,” says Skinner. “ _Bullshit_.”

“No,” says Dorian. “I have definitely learnt that one already.”

“Hey,” says Stitches, “anyone care to translate? For those of us who don’t speak Orlesian?”

“Don’t look at me,” says Dalish. “I’m lost.”

“He’s from Tevinter,” says Bull, in the common tongue. “And he apparently learnt how to speak Orlesian over the last week or so.”

“Aw, fuck off,” says Dalish. “I’ve been trying to learn it for _months_.”

“I am a very fast learner,” says Dorian, still in Orlesian, but-

“You understood what she was saying just then, in common,” says Bull.

“I am starting to learn that as well, yes,” Dorian confirms. “If someone would help me with the grammar, I would appreciate it. And some of the words- what does ‘fuck off’ mean, please?”

Bull sighs. “Where do I even begin?”

 

The thing is, Dorian wants to keep travelling with the Chargers.

“As you have seen, I am very useful,” he says. “It will be less dangerous for me, and less work for you.”

“Can you do anything else besides gather firewood?” says Skinner, but Bull hushes her with a gesture.

“Will it be dangerous for us, though?” he asks. “Having you around. You keep talking like someone’s after you.”

Dorian shrugs.

“People don’t like me,” he admits easily. “The last town I went through on my own, they threw stones at me.”

Bull’s first instinct is to ask, _what did you do that made them want to throw stones at you._ He waves Dalish and Krem over. They’re his experts on magic and weird vint shit respectively.

“Dorian here wants to travel with us,” he says, in common. “What do you think about it?”

Dalish glances over at Dorian, and Krem shrugs.

“Maybe, if we keep a close eye on him,” Krem ventures. Dalish nods.

This thought appeals to Bull. Something’s going on here. His every instinct is telling him to get as far away from it as possible, but he’d prefer to have Dorian tagging along with the Chargers where Bull can keep an eye on him, rather than skulking along in their wake, where he could be getting up to anything.

“He’s got a sort of weird magic magic feel about him, but I can’t tell if he’s a mage himself,” says Dalish. “He doesn’t feel dangerous, though. Just strange.”

Well, Bull could have figured that last bit out just by looking.

 

The other thing is- or rather, the next in what seems to be a series of _things_ \- the other thing is, Dorian doesn’t sleep.

“Oh, of course not,” says Bull. “Of course he doesn’t sleep.”

“I will take the watch, if you would like?” says Dorian. “You seem tired. You should sleep.”

“I’m tired because I was was awake all night making sure you weren’t going to come creeping up and murder us all,” Bull grumbles. At least that explains how Dorian was able to keep pace with them. Well, no, it doesn’t. Not entirely. But it helps.

It also raises more questions, though.

“So what do you think?” Bull asks Dalish, as they pack up their bedrolls the next morning. “Some sort of demon thing? Abomination?”

“I honestly don’t know,” says Dalish. “Like I said, it feels weird. I don’t have much experience with abominations, but usually they’re not so obvious. Up until they suddenly are.”

This isn’t comforting at all, Bull thinks, but it’ll do for the time being.

Dorian stands and watches them all saddle up. The horses seem wary, and shy away from him. He is barefoot, and dressed in rags. The early morning chill of the ground does not seem to bother him at all.

“So what’s the plan here?” Bull says, addressing Dorian in Orlesian. “You’re just going to walk?”

“Yes,” says Dorian. “If I fall behind, I will follow your tracks.”

Bull frowns. He doesn’t like that. Dorian is one of his boys now, if begrudgingly and probably temporarily, and he likes to keep them together. But there’s no other option. He’s too big to share a horse with anyone, even if the horses would have him.

Dorian is an interesting travelling companion. He lopes along next to them, never seeming to tire. His long strides keep pace easily with Rocky and Dalish’s little ponies, and even with Bull’s massive destrier. And as he walks, he asks questions- endless requests to identify a tree or an animal or a land feature, to define or translate a word, to explain why someone did something or said something. Skinner had ignored him and then dismissed him, riding ahead so he would leave her alone. Dalish did not understand half of his questions herself. This left Bull to field the bulk of them.

“So, these _nugs_ ,” Dorian says. “You say people make, ah, _leather_ out of their skins? How does that work?”

“Well, mostly people make leather out of qalaba hide,” says Bull. “That’s Qunlat, my people’s language, I don’t know the Orlesian word. In common, it’s _druffalo_.”

“ _Druffalo_ ,” Dorian repeats. “What’s Qunlat? Can you teach it to me?”

“Dunno,” says Bull, beginning to understand why Skinner got annoyed with him. “Let’s stick with the common tongue for the time being, hey?”

When they make camp, Dorian becomes far more quiet. He watches them set up their tents, and helps with any jobs that may need doing. While the Chargers sit around, laughing and talking over dinner, Dorian keeps to himself. He eats in fast, measured bites, and stares into the fire.

Bull decides to use this time to try and get a little information out of him.

“So,” he says, settling down on the ground next to Dorian. “Tevinter, eh?”

“It’s a nation to the north,” says Dorian, helpfully.

“I know that,” says Bull. “I’ve been there. Minrathous.”

“Oh!” says Dorian, his eyes going wide. “I’ve never been to Minrathous! What was it like?”

“Warm?” Bull offers.

“I’ve heard it is the best city in all of Thedas,” says Dorian. “Of course, I like Qarinus- I didn’t get to see much of it, but I can hardly imagine how Minrathous could possibly be better.”

“Which city are you from?” Bull prompts him.

“Qarinus,” says Dorian.

Bull raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t get out much, then,” he says.

“Not much, no,” says Dorian. That’s not very informative.

Bull tries a different topic. “What made you decide to leave Tevinter?”

“I was forced to leave,” says Dorian. “I’d rather not talk about it.” That’s the first actual refusal he’s given to discuss a particular topic. Naturally, Bull makes an immediate resolution to find out as much about it as he can, as soon as he can.

“I would like to go back there one day,” says Dorian quietly. “It really is the best place in the world.”

“If you say so,” says Bull, who is privately inclined to think that’s a steaming pile of nug shit. “You have noticed I’m a Qunari, right?”

“What?” says Dorian, turning at the waist to stare at Bull. “No, you’re not. The Qunari are barbarians.”

Bull fights an incredulous laugh. “Yes, I am. Definitely a Qunari. What did you think I was?”

“I don’t know,” says Dorian. “A friend, I suppose. I didn’t really think about it. But you cannot be a Qunari! They’re violent savages who collar their mages. You fight side-by-side with one.”

“I also like to think I’m not a violent savage, except for when I’m paid to be,” says Bull.

Dorian shakes his head, like he’s trying to rid himself of a buzzing insect. Or of a confusing idea.

 

Dorian’s attempts to learn the common tongue are proceeding apace. He speaks Orlesian nearly better than Bull, now, and keeps annoying Skinner with requests to teach him ever more esoteric words.

He has also been trying to convince Krem to teach him modern Tevene, without much luck. Krem has not taken to Dorian in the same way Dalish has. He is friendlier towards him than Skinner- but then, most people are friendlier than Skinner. Still, he is suspicious.

“I just don’t trust him,” Krem admits to Bull. “Very few good things ever came out of Tevinter, and I’m not real sure he’s one of them.”

Bull shrugs. Tall though he may be for a human, Bull is certain the Chargers could take Dorian in a fight if it came to that. And if it does turn out that there’s some weird magic shit going on, well, that’s what he keeps Dalish around for, isn’t it?

 

Their journey south is somewhat interrupted when the sky is torn apart.

Bull happens to be looking in the right direction to catch it- something a little like lightning, only green, way off in the distance, before suddenly it is as if the fabric of existence itself is rent in two.

“ _Shit_ ,” breathes Rocky, absolutely transfixed.

“Dalish!” Bull bellows. “Any idea what the fuck that is?”

“I’m an archer, Chief, how should I know?” says Dalish.

The others are all staring now, with varying levels of confusion and fear. Only Grim appears unmoved.

As little as Bull wants to get any closer to whatever the fuck is going on down south, the fact remains that they still have to deliver proof of their job’s completion, and collect their payment. So they head to Val Royeaux.

It takes almost a week for them to reach the city proper, and by the time they get there, rumour has spread. Bull has plenty of contacts in Val Royeaux, so while he sends Krem and a couple of the others off to rendezvous with the merchant who employed them, he goes to see what he can find out. He leaves Stitches responsible for getting the remaining Chargers- and Dorian- into some accommodations with as little fuss as possible.

His usual sources of information are mostly exactly where he left them. A beggar, a handful of merchants and shopkeepers, a brothel owner, some servants of the rich townhouses. Some of them are happy to chat with anyone who stands still long enough, some of them want to be paid for their knowledge. One way or another, they all have things to tell him.

“It means the world is coming to an end,” says an apothecary who owes Bull a favour. “I hear it signals the start of another Blight- the worst yet. You’ll want to head north again, mark my words.”

“I might do,” Bull tells him. “Depends where the jobs are.”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” says a messenger in the city square. “Letters are coming in from all over the place. They say the Divine was murdered. You should watch out, Bull- it was a Qunari that did it. Your people aren’t very popular right now.”

_Are we ever?_ Bull wonders.

“I don’t know what it means,” says an Antivan food vendor, pushing a cart. “All I know is people are leaving the city. The Left and Right Hands of the Divine are kicking up a fuss. I think they’re recruiting for some sort of holy war.”

By the time he’s done, Bull doesn’t exactly know what’s happened, but he knows what people are saying about what’s happened, which is almost as good. He will put some time aside this evening, to write up his findings, maybe try and make a little bit of sense out of them, and to draft a report for back home.

He heads back to the Chargers’ usual port of call, a sparse but clean inn called the Elephant. Grim is waiting out the front, and gives a lazy salute when he sees Bull.

“All the others here yet?” Bull asks. Grim nods, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

Bull heads inside.

 


	2. Blood Magic at Tiffany's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/138000203107).

Bull woke up to the sound of someone breaking into his apartment. There was the screech of hinges from over at the window, and the sound of someone very quietly saying ‘fuck’.

Bull glanced over to his bedside table. His money was still there where he’d left it, and the table lamp was still on. Next to the table, propped against the wall, was an axe. It was the sort of axe used by firemen and SWAT teams to break doors down. It would have made the average lumberjack cry bitter tears of envy. Bull was quite fond of it. 

Bull slid out of bed, quietly, picked up the axe and went over to the window, also quietly. The lacy curtains (nice touch, he’d have to thank ma'am for them) were twitching as the would-be home invader clambered through the window. Bull decided to help them out a bit, and pulled the curtains back. 

“Oh,” said Bull, blinking in surprise. “Nice of you to drop by.” 

The guy from downstairs- Dorian, he’d said his name was Dorian- hoisted himself through the window. He was dressed much the same as he’d been when Bull met him previously in a black button-up shirt, this one sleeveless, and a pair of leather pants. Actually, they were a different pair of leather pants to the ones he’d had on earlier. How many pairs of those did he own? 

“Weird question, but what were you doing climbing in through my window?” Bull asked. Maybe the guy was drunk. 

“Well, I was actually sitting out on the fire escape, but it started to get cold.” Dorian shivered dramatically. “Aren’t you cold? Do put some clothes on, please.” 

“Nah,” said Bull. “I’m comfortable like this.” 

“Well, I’m not. At least have the decency to wrap a sheet around your waist.” 

“Would _you_ stop to wrap a sheet around your waist if you thought someone was breaking into your apartment?” Bull asked. 

Dorian shrugged. “Depends who was breaking into my apartment I suppose. If it was you, maybe not.”

Bull decided he was supposed to feel flattered by this.

“Do you have anything to drink around here?”  Dorian asked, glancing around the apartment.

Yeah. Probably drunk. “Sure. Bottle on top of the fridge over there.” Bull pointed. 

“Thank you,” said Dorian. He had to stretch slightly to reach the bottle, making his shirt ride up just a little. Bull didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was looking. 

“So why were you out on the fire escape, then?” said Bull. He’d probably have to do something about that. Having an apartment that was so easy to get into was dangerous. If the Ben-Hassrath sent assassins after him, there was no guarantee he’d wake up in time to axe them. 

“Well, I had to get out of my apartment, and I could hardly go out my front door, could I?” Dorian unscrewed the lid from the bottle and took a mouthful. He coughed as it went down.  “Ugh, what _is_ that?” 

“Maraas-lok,” said Bull cheerfully. “Qunari liquor.”

“It’s repulsive,” said Dorian, taking another swig. “Anyway, there is a man outside my apartment who wants very badly to talk to me. Sadly for him, the feeling is not mutual. So I went out the fire escape.” 

 _Aw, shit,_ thought Bull. That was the start of a very bad feeling. Now was not the time for him to be collecting ducklings.  
Typical, not even one day in Denerim and his bleeding heart was already latching onto another hard-luck case.

“Do I need to go scare him off?” he heard his mouth say.

“Oh, maker, no, I’d rather stay on good terms with this gentleman. He’ll get bored and wander off soon, you’ll see.” 

“All right,” said Bull. “Offer stands, though.” 

Dorian shot him a small, quick smile. _Shit,_ Bull thought again.

Bull propped the axe against the wall, then went over to pick his pants up from the pile he’d left them in earlier. 

“Actually,” said Dorian, “on second thoughts, those are very ugly. Better if you stay naked.” 

“Too late,” said Bull. “You said I should put some clothes on, I’m putting some clothes on. Give me the maraas-lok.” 

After a moment’s deliberation, Dorian handed the bottle over. Bull took a mouthful and handed it back. 

Bull sat down on one of the chairs at his tiny little dining table, and gestured for Dorian to sit at the other. 

“So, is this going to be a regular thing? You climbing through my window in the middle of the night?”  

“It’s hardly the middle of the night!” Dorian protested. “It’s- two thirty. Hm. Well I suppose that’s your problem for being asleep, then.” 

Bull snorted. “I work early hours.” 

“Oh yes?” said Dorian. “What is it you do, exactly?”

“I’m a hitman,” said Bull, very bluntly. 

Dorian froze. To be fair, that or nervous laughter was most people’s reaction. 

“If anyone from Tevinter ever hires you,” said Dorian, “don’t take the job.” 

“I wouldn’t have anyway,” said Bull. “Why, you think someone’s likely to take a hit out on you?” 

“I didn’t say it had anything to do with me,” Dorian snapped. 

Bull let it slide. He made a habit of not overtly prying into other people’s business, otherwise they might pry right back.


	3. Don't Think About Elephants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/139080991712).

The scene is this: a stylish open-air café that Bull used to visit in Minrathous. Not an exact copy, of course, but close enough. He’s not knowledgeable enough on the subject of vint architecture to create something from scratch, and the subject would probably spot all his mistakes if he tried.

So, the café. The breeze is warm, and coffee scents the air. There is the noise and bustle of the rest of the city going about its business, but here, in the café courtyard, they are insulated from all that.

“I’ll have the spiced hot chocolate, thanks,” he says to the waiter hovering attentively at his elbow. “And a chocolate croissant if you’ve got them.”

An Orlesian pastry, the croissant, which most self-respecting vints would eschew. Bull hopes this particular restaurant has a more generous range than that.

They will of course have whatever sort of pastry he cares to order. It’s Bull’s dream, after all.

The waiter nods, and scribbles something down on his notepad.

“Just a black coffee for me,” says Bull’s companion at the table. He is a handsome, youngish fellow, dressed casually but snappily in expensive looking jeans, and a jumper that is probably made of cashmere. His name is Dorian Pavus, and he is the son of a prominent Tevinter politician.

“Certainly,” says the waiter, and hurries off. Like all the best-trained waitstaff, it is as if he was never there to begin with.

“Remind me, please,” says Dorian, leaning over the table towards Bull. The late afternoon sunlight hits his eyes at an angle, making his irises appear pale as cold, clear water. “What is the name of this café? It’s such a charming little place, but I seem to have quite forgotten.”

“The Elephant,” Bull says, without hesitation. It might as well be.

“Thank you,” Dorian says. “While we’re at it, would you mind telling me who you are, and what you’re doing in my mind?”

Bull’s brain goes blank, but only for an instant. Varric didn’t hire him- and pay him an obscene amount of money- so he could sit there staring like a qalaba when shit hit the fan.

“Why, Mr Pavus,” he says, pasting on his best flirtatious smile. The face he’s got right now wears it well. “Do you mean to say you haven’t been able to stop thinking about me?”

“Please at least do me the courtesy of not treating me like an idiot,” Dorian snaps. “Who hired you? Is it about business? Politics? Was it the Venatori?”

“Dorian, darling, please calm down,” says Bull. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” The other patrons of the café have heard Dorian’s raised voice, sensed the disturbance. Some of them have turned to stare.

Dorian smiles sarcastically. “Try again,” he says. “Every adult living in Minrathous knows whom the Venatori are.”

Well, looks like his cover’s pretty thoroughly blown. Bull debates whether to cut the crap, or keep playing dumb.

“But then,” says Dorian, “a Venatori agent would know that, and would know better than to let himself be discovered so easily. Which means you must genuinely have no idea what you’re doing. Which means-”

Dorian pauses. His expression does something unpleasant.

“It’s my fucking father, isn’t it,” he says. His previous bravado has fled his voice entirely.

“I dunno,” says Bull. “Who’s your father?”

“Halward Pavus, as if you didn’t already know,” says Dorian. “Tell my father to leave me alone. And while you’re at it, fire your researcher.”

That’s all Bull gets from him before the world is ripped out from under his feet.

–

Bull snaps back into consciousness with a bruise on the back of his head.  
It’s not exactly an unfamiliar feeling. You’d think after this many years of working together, his boys would’ve figured out exactly how far they needed to place the pillows to stop him whacking his head on the floor, but apparently not.

In an instant he’s managed to take stock of his surroundings- he’s in a chair, on the floor, in the back room of the nightclub they’d followed Dorian Pavus into. Krem is over there in the corner, hand on his gun, and Skinner standing right there, looking way too smug about having tipped her boss on his ass.

Behind Skinner, he can see the other chair they set up. Dorian’s sprawled out in it, still under. In the waking world, he looks far less polished. This may have to do with his messy hair and cheap clothes, or it may have to do with the way he’s drooling a little as he sleeps. It’s kind of a toss-up.

Situation under control, then.

“I’m going to fucking _kill_ Varric,” Bull announces to the room at large. Stitches is by his side, sliding the cannula out of his arm and smoothing a dressing on top.

“What the hell happened, Chief?” Krem asks. He looks twitchy. “Pavus started waking up, we had to seriously fucking dose him and bring you out early.”

“Might’ve been a reaction to the somnacin,” says Stitches. “I dunno, some people it doesn’t work as well on. Couldn’t tell you anything more about it.”

“He knew,” says Bull shortly. He hauls himself up off the ground. Stitches has already disconnected Dorian and started packing away the Chargers’ PASIV as they’ve been speaking.

“Sorry, what?” says Krem. “Knew he was dreaming?”

“More,” says Bull. “He was extremely lucid, he knew I was lying to him- started trying to guess who we were working for.”

“So he’s trained, then?” That’s Skinner. Straight to the point. “Nice of fucking Varric to mention that before you went under.”

“Like I said,” Bull grunts. “I’m going to kill him.”

They leave Dorian slumped in the corner of the room, still asleep. Skinner snagged a half-empty bottle of some hideous mixed drink to leave in his hand. Hopefully when he wakes up, he’ll draw the obvious- wrong- conclusion. Hopefully he won’t remember what happened.

The rest of the Chargers split up into ones and twos. Bull, for his part, goes to find Varric.

Predictably enough, Varric is found in a smoke-filled dive bar, playing cards and talking shit.

Bull looms over the table, right in Varric’s line of sight. He’s trying to make a point.

“Oh,” says Varric. “Hey there. Long time no see.”

“You saw me just a week ago,” says Bull. “In fact, you hired me.”

“Did I do that?” says Varric, looking evasive. Bull continues to loom until Varric gets the point. He sighs, and excuses himself from the game. He leads Bull away into a more isolated corner. A few people are looking at them, but then, Bull’s a noticeable guy. Most of them have gone back to their business.

“Listen,” says Varric. He makes a move as if to clap Bull on the shoulder, but mainly ends up clapping his elbow instead. “The situation’s changed.”

“Damn right it has,” says Bull.

“No, I mean a couple of days ago I met a very nice woman-”

“Uh huh,” says Bull. He’s familiar with Varric’s idea of a very nice woman. She tried to shoot him with a crossbow once.

“- a very nice woman named Cassandra, who tied me to a chair and interrogated me about Hawke. Anyway, point is, she’s having me watched. I can’t get the Kirkwall team together, not for this job. I need to find some new people.”

“Okay,” says Bull, “and I’d be fine with that, except this job is shaping up to be a complete clusterfuck.”

“C’mon, Bull,” Varric says. “I know you, you’re a problem solver. Whatever it is, we can figure out a way around it.”

“ _Clusterfuck_ ,” Bull repeats. He’s not going to tell Varric the details until they get somewhere more secure, but the general picture is pretty easy to sum up.

Varric grins. “You say that _now_ ,” he says, “but wait until I tell you how much our client is offering to pay.”

“I’m listening,” says Bull.

Varric tells him.

Bull takes the job.

–

First, though, he and Varric retire to Varric’s hotel room. Bull tears Varric a new one while Varric, totally unconcerned, sweeps the room for bugs. Varric’s always been kind of a paranoid bastard. Bull likes that about him.

“I don’t know if your research was shit, or if you just weren’t telling me for whatever fucking reason, but the guy had been trained. He knew he was dreaming. He practically saw right through my forge-”

“Okay,” says Varric, “just be more convincing next time. I don’t know. We’ll get a better researcher. I think I know someone. Heard of Vivienne de Fer?”

Bull has. He’s always wanted to meet her. That’s not really the point, though.

“There are so many ways this job could go bad. Hell, if he’s got subconscious security, there’s basically no way it _won’t_ go bad.”

Varric shrugs. “Consider it a challenge,” he says. “I think we can do it.”

He’d thought about bringing the Chargers back in for this job, trying to contact any of them who hadn’t skipped the country yet, but. Well. This job seems like some deep shit; better to keep them out of it.

They also need to find a chemist. Between the two of them, Stitches and Rocky do okay for the sorts of jobs Bull usually pulls, but Varric has something more ambitious in mind.

“The client is a man named Magister Halward Pavus,” says Varric.

Bull groans. Of fucking course.

“That’s the mark’s father, isn’t it?” he says.

Varric looks slightly guilty. “How’d you know that?”

“He told me? What did you think I was doing when I went under with him, sitting around with my thumb up my ass?” The fact that they have the same last name also kind of gives it away.

“Fucking nug shit, you engaged with him? I told you just to go take a look around his head, Bull!”

Bull shrugs. “He kind of zeroed in on me. Like I said, I’m pretty sure he’s been trained.”

“We can talk our way around that,” Varric says confidently. “So it’s better to have found it out now than later. Plus, if he thinks we’re working for whoever these Venatori are, that could be to our advantage.”

“So what’s the actual job?” Bull asks.

Varric rubs his hands together. “It’s kind of dramatic, actually,” he says. “This family’s old money, if you couldn’t tell. Had a bit of a falling-out a few years back. Pavus wants us to bring his son back into the fold. Convince him to marry the girl they picked out for him, that sort of thing.”

“Huh,” says Bull. “That sounds like it could get complicated. Actually, I’m not even sure it’d be possible.”

“Do you think so?” says Varric. “There’s this rumour going around that the Qunari secret police do that sort of thing to their people all the time.”

“What, arranged marriages?” says Bull. He’s not really sure he likes where this is going.

“No,” says Varric. “I mean planting an idea in someone’s mind. I don’t actually need a forger for this job, Bull- I need a retired Ben-Hassrath agent.”

Bull sighs. He was right. _Deep shit._


	4. Coming Home to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/139513127212).  
> Sort of a flipside version of [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6318589) fic.

It was a mild early evening when the dead man walked up the path towards Skyhold.

“Oh, fuck no,” said Bull. Cassandra turned to see what he was looking at.

“Oh, my word,” she said. “Is that-”

“No,” said Bull firmly. “It’s not. It’s gotta be some sort of trick.”

“You, there,” said Cassandra, gesturing to one of the soldiers, who’d stopped by them to see what all the fuss was about. “Go get the Inquisitor. Tell her it’s important.”

“Is that the whole message?” asked the soldier.

Cassandra exhaled a breath like a sigh.

“Tell her it’s Dorian. Dorian has come back.”

–  


The dead man reached them before the Inquisitor did. He had barely stepped one foot through the gates when Bull was upon him, knife unsheathed from his belt, and held up to the dead man’s throat.

“Oh, now really,” said the dead man. “I was expecting a warmer welcome than that.”

“What are you?” the Bull asked. Snarled. Whatever. “Demon? Venatori trick? What?”

“I know it’s been a while, Bull, but I didn’t think you’d forget me that quickly,” the dead man said. His lips quirked at the corners, and fuck, Bull had spent weeks wishing with everything in him to see that smile. “Cassandra. Lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” said Cassandra, face grim.

–

“So tell me what happened,” said Adaar. “Cause as far as I remember, we buried you.”

The dead man had been hastened to the Inquisitor’s rooms, with another messenger dispatched to pick up the advisors, Vivienne, and Solas.

“Yes, that was rather thoughtless of you,” the dead man replied. “You have no idea how difficult it is to make a dramatic return from the dead when one has to dig oneself out of the grave first.”

“Should’ve burnt him,” Bull muttered. The Qunari burnt their dead. In modern times, because it was convenient, but the practise was rooted in ancient superstition.

“All things considered, I’m glad you didn’t,” said the dead man, with a wry smile that rightfully belonged to someone else.

“Entertaining as this is, it does not answer the Inquisitor’s question,” said Vivienne. Her stern countenance was unmoved. Good on her, always getting to the point.

“I had certain safeguards in place,” the dead man said. “Please do remember I’m a necromancer.”

“You _were_ a necromancer,” Bull corrected him. “You’re not any fuckin’ thing right now.”

“Bull,” Adaar turned to scowl at him. “You’re not helping. If you can’t keep it together, it might be best if you waited outside.”

“Yeah,” said Bull, “maybe it would. So when this _thing_ starts spewing out demons there’ll be someone left to raise the alarm.”

“ _Really_ ,” snapped the dead man, and his hair was matted and his robes were bloodstained and dirty, and seriously, Bull was supposed to believe that Dorian, his Dorian, wouldn't’ve even stopped to splash a bit of water on his face?

“Fine,” said Bull, heading for the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

–

“He’s not a demon,” said Cole, appearing from fuck knows where.

“Don’t remember asking you,” Bull grunted. He’d gone to his room to sharpen his axe. It didn’t need it, but the job always made him feel better. Calmer.

“He doesn’t feel like a demon,” Cole insisted. “He doesn’t feel… right, exactly. But he’s not going to hurt us.”

“Let me guess,” said Bull. “He wants to help.”

“That’s why he came back,” Cole told him. “That’s why he joined the Inquisition in the first place. He wanted to make the world a better place.”

“Yeah, kid,” said Bull, tired. “I know he did.”

–

Later, in the Herald’s Rest. Bull rather thought to drown his unquiet thoughts in alcohol. He’d forgotten that someone else favoured that strategy, too.

“Given how you feel about magic, I imagined you would be a little wary. But I thought you’d at least be happy to see me.”

Bull didn’t flinch at the sound of the dead man’s voice, directly and unexpectedly behind him, but it was a close-run thing.

“So what’s the verdict?” Bull asked, still resolutely facing the opposite wall. “Did they decide if you’re a demon or not?”

“In her infinite wisdom, the Inquisitor has determined that I am indeed what I claim to be,” said the dead man. “That is, your handsome and noble compatriot, returned from his tragic demise.”

He dropped into the seat across from Bull, though Bull had not invited him to do so. “Adaar says the library is just how I left it, isn’t that nice?”

“Y’know,” Bull said, “it’s funny you never mentioned any of this back when you were alive. Kinda suspicious actually.”

The dead man flicked a dismissive hand at him, a painfully familiar gesture. “It was a precaution I never thought I’d actually need. I didn’t want to worry you.”

His skin always used to look so warm, used to practically glow in the firelight of the tavern. This walking corpse, now, his complexion was ashen. He had washed the dirt off his face, at least.

Bull relented.

“You want an ale?” he said.

“You know,” said the dead man, “I’m not actually sure I can eat or drink anymore. I certainly don’t need to. Magic alone sustains me- it’s fascinating, actually, I don’t think anything like this has ever been attempted before.”

Shockingly enough, that didn’t do much to make Bull feel more normal about the whole situation. He kind of wished he hadn’t made the offer.

–

Bull had dreamed about Dorian nearly every night for weeks.

There were Qunari exercises in mental control that were supposed to drive dreams away. All his life Bull had performed these with devotion, even more so in the aftermath of Seheron. Qunari were not supposed to dream. But he was a Tal Vashoth now, and figured he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

So, dreams about Dorian. Not even filthy ones, not that those would have been unwelcome. Dreams of him chatting in the tavern with Sera, of him training with his staff in the courtyard, safe and happy in Skyhold. Dreams of falling asleep next to him and waking up next to him, of cold feet and the comforting weight of a body at his side-

Bull’s eyes flew open.

“Get out,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

The thing that sat up next to him in bed looked a lot like Dorian, but Bull had seen Dorian stabbed through the lung and left to cough blood until he died. This version of Dorian wasn’t coughing, wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t even _breathing_.

“I said get out,” Bull repeated.

“You might recall, Bull, this is where I sleep. We’ve shared quarters for months now.” The dead man wore a shirt on in bed, the way Dorian never had, no matter how cold it got. Bull didn’t want to know what he’d look like without it.

Bull stared him down. He wasn’t going to say it again.

The dead man sighed, and slipped out of the bed. He stumbled around searching for his clothes, his boots. In the dimness of the room, it could almost have been a scene straight out of the early days of their relationship. It had been such a battle, to convince Dorian that he should stay, that he was safe there.

“I wasn’t sleeping, anyway,” he said, a little petulant.

Bull didn’t feel the need to respond to this.

“I suppose I will go to the library. Get some research done.”

“You do what you want,” said Bull. “Just keep out of my way.”

“Of course,” said the dead man stiffly, the way Dorian always used to when he was hurt but trying not to show it. Seems that much hadn’t changed.

–

“It’s rather unpleasant, being kept at arm’s length all of a sudden by the only man you ever truly loved.”

“It’s not sudden. You died.”

Avoiding Dorian had been pretty easy. By all accounts he’d been holed up in the library, with occasional trips to the Undercroft. Apparently, no longer needing to eat or sleep did a lot for productivity.

“You have not behaved in a particularly gentlemanly fashion since I’ve been back.”

Bull scowled. “I offered to buy you a drink the other night. Not my fault you couldn’t drink it.”

Dorian smiled at him, humourlessly. “I feel like you’re looking for excuses to be wary of me.”

What Bull didn’t say was: _I think the others are all looking for excuses not to_. They were too glad to have their friend back, too incautious in their relief.

It felt like he’d only just squared himself with the idea of free mages as a helpful force, not necessarily a harmful one, when Dorian had gone and gotten himself killed. He’d only just stopped flinching when Dorian casually lit a candle with a wave of his hand, or when Dalish levitated a drink over from the bar instead of standing up to go get it.

Being asked to accept _this_ , now, on top of everything? Maybe Bull was being overly suspicious. Maybe he was being cruel. But Bull was used to his gut feelings being right.


	5. Freezing Out Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/141224948187).

Bull was at work when he saw them.

It was a chilly night, so he was glad he’d thought to wear a jacket. Black, over his black shirt and well-cut jeans, as per the dress code at Iron Lady. The bar wasn’t as fancy as some of the other places Viv owned, like the restaurant on the other side of town, but it demanded a certain standard of dress from its employees. Even the bouncer.

It was late by that point- or maybe it was early, depending on which direction you were looking at it from. Some of the clubs and bars had closed, and far fewer people were entering or leaving. That left Bull, at the door, with not much to do. He was half-hoping to be called in to deal with a disturbance inside, so he could get out of the cold for a bit.

He gazed around aimlessly. Across the road, another club had recently opened, sandwiched between a pawnbroker and a restaurant long closed for the night.

Viv had complained about the new arrival endlessly. It was a slightly tacky gay club called Veilfire- “each to their own,” she’d said, “but their music choices are so dreadful.”

Bull privately thought it was pretty restrained, as gay clubs went, and he said that both from professional and personal experience. Still, Viv had high standards, and novelty rainbow shots plus the occasional person showing up in a onesie didn’t fit into them.

There were a few people hanging around outside Veilfire, waiting for friends or getting some air. A couple of young women tottered past on sky-scraping heels.

Ducking out of the club, then, came two pretty young things- a girl and a guy, it looked like. An elf and a human, respectively. The girl propped herself up against the wall, and lit a cigarette.

Bull was just about bored enough to consider checking her out, though from what he could see she seemed a little younger than he usually felt comfortable with, maybe in her early twenties. Plus, her choppy haircut and the red and black flannel she had wrapped around her shoulders to keep out the cold suggested there wouldn’t be much point, anyway.

Her friend, then. Clad in very tight jeans and a dramatic moustache, he appeared to be wheedling the girl into sharing her cigarette. Rolling her eyes, she handed it over.

The guy took a deep drag of it, cheeks hollowing, then exhaled a thin stream of bluish smoke from between his teeth.

Bull felt something inside himself sit up and pay attention. _Ataashi_ , he thought, for no good reason at all.

Illuminated dimly by the streetlight, the guy’s face was a topography of deep shadows and raised planes. The little glowing ember of the cigarette dimmed and flared as the guy took another drag.

“Oi, give it back.”

He could just about hear the girl’s voice from across the road, tone sharp yet affectionate. The guy simply laughed in response, rich and carrying.

_Shit,_ thought Bull. It would be the height of irresponsibility while he was on the clock, but he kind of wanted to go over there and say hi.

It wasn’t just that the guy was hot- he was captivating. He looked like the sort of guy you tie to the bedposts, and then lavish attention on until he was writhing and sweating and couldn’t take it anymore. Then, and only then, would you fuck him. Sweetly or roughly or somewhere in between, however he liked it.

Bull could just picture it. It’d be great.

Of course, after his shift ended, it would be late, and the only thing he’d have to look forward to was a cold apartment and his own hand.

Still, at least the accompanying fantasies would have a new star tonight.

Bull glanced across the road again, to see the girl had reclaimed her cigarette. Her friend, now, was-

… looking right at Bull actually. Bull felt his eyebrow rise. He shifted his posture very slightly, casually moving to cross his arms across his chest. The guy shifted too, shoulders resettling against the wall.

Bull made eye contact, and offered up a slanted grin.

The guy nudged his friend and said a few words to her, then set off across the road. After a moment’s consideration, she stubbed out her cigarette and followed him.

Once they got close enough for Bull to see the stamps up and down their arms, the guy levelled Bull with a look.

“Excuse me, is this place still open?” he said.

Bull glanced down at the guy and his friend.

“Well, yeah,” he said with a shrug. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Excellent,” said the guy, with a satisfied smile.

“ID, please,” said Bull. “Oh, and twenty bucks entry.”

“You’re shitting me,” said the girl.

“Afraid not,” said Bull.

“S’not worth it,” said the girl. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else.”

“Well, the DJ here is way better than Veilfire’s, I can tell you that much,” said Bull.

The girl stopped and squinted at him. Her friend scowled suspiciously.

“I suppose you go to Veilfire a lot, then?” he said.

Bull shrugged. “Been a few times,” he said. Truthfully, he was more of a pub guy when he wasn’t working. But there were times when he wanted to pick someone up, and Veilfire was a good place to do it.

“Oh, yes?” The guy gave him a look up and down, more judgemental than interested. “I suppose you’re a real hit with the ladies,” he said sarcastically. The girl next to him gave an inelegant snigger.

“And the blokes,” said Bull.

The guy gave him another once-over, this time definitely checking him out. Good. Bull always liked to prove assumptions wrong, especially when it might result in him getting laid.

“Right,” said the girl loudly. “Now we’ve sorted out that the huge Qunari bouncer likes dangly bits, can we get back inside? I’m freezing my tits off out here.”

“You go ahead, Sera,” said the guy absently. One slender hand has risen to stroke a knuckle along that silly moustache. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

The girl- Sera- made an elaborate noise of disgust, and turned to go back across the road. Her friend remained, a considering expression on his face.

Bull smirked, and folded his arms across his chest in a way that made his biceps bulge. Let the guy look his fill.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Dorian,” said the guy.

“Good to meet you,” said Bull. “You can call me Bull.”

“You’re joking,” said Dorian.

“Nope,” said Bull. “That’s my actual, legal name.”

“Is that as in ‘horns like’, or as in ‘hung like’?” Dorian asked.

Bull laughed, delighted. “Can’t it be both?” he asked.

Dorian smirked. “Oh, I rather hope it’s both,” he said.

This was _good;_ not only was the guy hot, he was flirty, and interested, and not particularly shy about making it known.

“So,” said Bull, “did you and your friend really want to get into Iron Lady?”

“We were considering it,” said Dorian. “But no, I think I’ll be heading home soon. Unless I can think of a better idea before then.” He said this with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows.

“I could think of a whole bunch of better ideas,” said Bull, “but unfortunately I’m still on the clock. My boss would have my ass if I skipped out in the middle of a shift, and not in the fun way.”

As it turned out, irritation looked only marginally less attractive than every other expression Dorian had made so far.

“Hey,” said Bull. “How bout you give me your number, and I’ll call you up some night when I’m free?”

“That would be an acceptable consolation,” said Dorian, fishing his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. Bull was a little mystified as to how he’d got it in there in the first place.

They exchanged numbers.

“Seriously,” said Bull. “Don’t be a stranger. I’d like to see you some time.”

Dorian have him a small smile.

The bass from inside Iron Lady pounded up through Bull’s bones, and the night was cold and clear. Bull felt a thrill of victory.

“Oi, Dorian!” That was Sera again, leaning out the door of Veilfire to yell across the street. “You coming back in or what?”

“It would appear I’m required elsewhere,” said Dorian. Was it just Bull’s imagination, or did he sound slightly reluctant?

“Sounds urgent,” said Bull.

“It’s quite a trial, being in such demand,” Dorian sighed theatrically. Bull snorted, and after a moment, Dorian’s lips twitched into a grin.

“Honestly, Sera probably just wants someone to try her girlfriend’s latest inadvisable cocktail concoction with her,” he admitted. “That way if things go bad, we can suffer together.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep you from that,” said Bull, although he very much did.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder. Sera had disappeared back into the club.

“Hey-” Bull began, at about the same time as Dorian drew himself up on tiptoe, and pressed a quick, open kiss to Bull’s mouth.

There was barely a moment to savour it- the yield of soft lips, the tickle of his moustache, the slight scrape of his teeth as he withdrew. Dorian gave Bull a meaningful look, before turning to saunter back across the street.

“Damn,” said Bull softly.

He couldn’t help but let his gaze linger as Dorian walked away from him.

Well. Maybe the next time he had a night off, Bull would be forgoing the Chargers’ usual bar, and going to Veilfire instead.


	6. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/141363092607).

Dorian manages to last for five turns- five turns of Bull looming behind him, watching him and Cullen move chess pieces across the board and not saying a word- before he snaps.

“Was there something you wanted, Bull?” he asks, forcing himself to be polite.

“Nah,” says Bull, not in the least bit offended. “Just watching you play. Sorry, am I putting you off your game?”

“It would take more than a looming Qunari barbarian to put _me_ off my game,” Dorian huffs, “provided the wind was blowing the other direction.”

This rudeness is unfortunately not enough to make Bull leave. He continues to stand, and watch, and occasionally make a noise of interest or amusement under his breath.

Dorian and Cullen have been chasing each other back and forth across the board, heading inexorably towards a stalemate, when Dorian’s patience runs out.

“Shall I explain the rules to you, Bull? Will you leave then?”

“I know ‘em, thanks,” says Bull, mildly. Dorian feels slightly ashamed of himself, and then annoyed at feeling ashamed. After all, how was he to know?

“Well, by all means, feel free to demonstrate your prowess,” says Dorian, he stands up from his chair and gestures at the board.

He fully expects Bull to turn him down, as he would be well within his rights to do. Otherwise, he expects a clumsy and obvious performance, against which a skilled player like Cullen would easily triumph. At least it would break the stalemate, and quite possibly be entertaining.

Bull has Cullen’s king within three moves.

“There we go,” says Bull with a wink. “That enough of a demonstration for you?”

“I- how on earth did you manage _that_?” Dorian splutters.

“Nothing to it. ‘S just strategy,” says Bull.

“Good game,” says Cullen, with a note of genuine admiration in his voice that makes Dorian bristle. “Would you be interested in playing again sometime?”

“Sure,” says Bull. “Oh, and Dorian- remember, my door’s always open, if you wanna see any more of my _prowess_.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” says Dorian, and stalks off.

–

“Hey, Dorian,” says Bull, dropping into the chair across from Dorian’s desk. It gives an ominous creak.

“What?” says Dorian, refusing to look up from his book.

“Qué sorpresa, se encuentra en la biblioteca,” says Bull.

“What?” Dorian repeats.

“Did I conjugate that right?” Bull asks. “I’m trying to learn Antivan. I know you speak a bit.“

“Why are you trying to learn Antivan?” says Dorian, mystified.

“Something to do, isn’t it?” Bull says, with a shrug. “Anyway, Antivan is _sexy_.”

Dorian would have thought Bull had better things to do, recruits to hit with swords and barmaids to ravish and so forth. But, well, if Bull has decided to spend his time in Dorian’s humble library…

“Wait here,” says Dorian, getting up from his chair. “I have some books in Antivan you can borrow- those diplomats left them behind, frightful bunch, their idea of _tasteful cologne_ brought me out in _hives_ \- oh, and there’s a lexicon in here somewhere, you might find it useful- certainly more useful than five separate copies of _Hard in Hightown_ , that’s for certain…”

Dorian is abruptly startled by the sound of Bull’s laughter.

“Sorry,” he says, as Dorian turns to stare at him. “Just- that was funny.”

“I always aim to entertain,” Dorian sniffs.

Bull grins. “You’re kind of a sweet guy, y’know. When you’re not trying to be a dick.”

“And you’re tolerable company, when you remember to bathe,” Dorian calls back at him, ducking behind a shelf.

“Don’t go around saying shit like that, big guy. People might start thinking you like me,” says Bull.

Dorian is saved the effort of responding to this when he finds the lexicon he was looking for.

“Here,” he says, pressing it into Bull’s hands. “I suppose you could practise with me, if you cannot find anyone more suitable. My own Antivan could do with brushing up, anyway.”

“I look forward to it,” Bull says, and he sounds shockingly sincere.

Dorian tries not to read too much into it.

–

These are the things that take Dorian by surprise: Bull is learning Antivan, merely to pass the time. Bull can speak the Common Tongue, obviously, and Qunlat, presumably. Bull casually mentions that he can speak Orlesian, and a fair amount of both Tevene and the native language of Seheron.

“What,” says Dorian, slamming shut the lexicon he has been flipping through. “That’s- what, _five_ languages.”

“Three,” says Bull, “if you only count the ones I’m fluent in. Same as you.”

“Why do you even need to know all those languages,” says Dorian. He doesn’t belabour the point that his Antivan is far from perfect, his Tevene a fragmentary thing more useful for swearing and for looking cultured at dinner parties than for carrying out an actual conversation. Bull, meanwhile, speaks both Common and Orlesian like he was born to it, and damns his own skill with the faint praise of ‘fluent’. Dorian suspects he is being modest.

Bull shrugs. “It’s something to do,” he says, predictably.

Dorian is furthermore surprised by the apparent enjoyment with which Bull takes to learning a new language. He seems fascinated by grammar and syntax- does not always know the technical words for these things, but has an intuitive understanding of how words slot into place. Dorian supposes after learning so many languages, certain patterns begin to make themselves evident.

“I’ve never actually sat down and really studied a language like this,” Bull remarks, running a blunt finger down a column of words in the lexicon. “I mostly just picked them up on the fly, y’know-”

“Oh, do shut up,” says Dorian, almost fondly. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

–

It has been a long time, really, since Dorian would have looked at the shape of Bull’s horns and the grey of his skin and presumed him stupid. Between Bull and Adaar- who wasn’t exactly a simpleton either- any lingering Tevinter dogma regarding the natural intellectual inferiority of the Qunari had been stripped from him.

So, then, Bull is not stupid. Even so, Dorian is sometimes taken by surprise by exactly how _intelligent_ he is.

It’s not just the things he knows. Certainly Bull is well-travelled, not to mention well-read, though his preferred facade of the boorish mercenary would certainly trick one into thinking otherwise.

But then, there is Bull’s analytical mind. Even while he is downing ale and flirting with barmaids and cracking reprehensible jokes in the Herald’s rest, Dorian would bet good money he had the measure of every other person in the room.

Bull understands people, in all their many permutations. He understands them as individuals and as groups, and he knows how to use them to his advantage.

Dorian is begrudgingly impressed by this skill, and then irritated, after one too many uncomfortably accurate comments about Dorian’s inclination to _do the forbidden_.

Dorian has a vague fantasy about taking Bull by surprise one time. Doing something totally unexpected, just for the look on his face. He has a pretty good idea what that thing should probably be- wouldn’t Bull be surprised if Dorian actually took him up on his offer? Actually returned the his flirtations, took the initiative for once, went and knocked on Bull’s door? What if Dorian were to pull Bull down by the horns, and silence him with a kiss? To put aside his reservations, and to unabashedly take what they both wanted.

Bull’s aptitude for strategy would be of no use once Dorian’s mouth was wrapped around his cock. And all the languages in Thedas would be irrelevant, when the only words that mattered were ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘more’. Bull was so good at reading people, of course- would that skill be of use in the bedroom? Had he already guessed the way Dorian liked to be fucked, all the very best ways to make him scream?

One day, Dorian promises himself. Soon, he is going to find out.


	7. Snow What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://grimark.tumblr.com/post/141566756277).  
> I totally forgot I had this chapter saved as an ao3 draft, for a good six months or so?

Dorian returned to consciousness with his hands and feet bound, and something that felt like a hessian sack pulled over his head.

His first instinct was to burn his way out of there- fire had always come easily to him, even for problems that may have been best suited by a lighter touch. As such, it was probably for the best that his captors had apparently thought to dose him with magebane before tying him up.

The bitter taste in his mouth and the absence of his connection to the fade very nearly sent him into a panic. The rope around his wrists was tight, and chafed quite badly when he tried to squirm his way out of it.

“Quiet, you,” said someone nearby.

Dorian flinched at the unexpected voice, and then stilled.

He could feel a wooden floor beneath his prone body. The floor was rattling and jolting, and then there was the distant sound of horses’ hooves. This suggested he was in a carriage. Tied up and poisoned in the back of a carriage, with at least one person guarding him.

_Brilliant_ , Dorian thought. _This whole running away from home jaunt has worked out so well._

He tried to work his hands out of the rope again, only to be prodded in the ribs with the tip of someone’s boot, and not particularly gently.

_How dare they! I am the son of a magister!_ Dorian thought. He almost said it, too, but he was in the south now, and had sold his birthright besides. Even if he could somehow prove his identity, chances were it wouldn’t endear him to his captors at all. Best that they thought he was just some minor southern noble.

He calmed himself, and tried to say in measured tones: “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Relax,” said the voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just need a mage.”

_Damn_ , thought Dorian. He’d been trying to travel incognito, but it was difficult to pass off even the plainest staff for a walking stick.

_I always suspected the gilt skulls and coiling serpents were a little ostentatious._

“We already have a mage,” said another voice, slightly further away.

“Yeah, but we need another one,” said the first voice.

“Why me?” said Dorian, wishing they would take the sack off his head so he could see to whom he spoke. “I am of no value to you. I am but a humble traveler, surely there are many other mages around for you to harass-”

“Not every day you find a genuine Tevinter Altus sleeping under a hedge,” said the first voice, sounding amused.

Well, there went any hopes of pretending to be a southerner.

–

When the carriage stopped, the bonds around Dorian’s ankles were cut.

“Don’t try to kick,” said one of his captors, very close to his ear. “Struggle, and I’ll slit your throat.”

Dorian decided, on the balance of things, it would be best to come quietly.

Dorian was hauled to his feet, and led out the door of the carriage. Finally, finally, they took the sack off his head.

Dorian blinked in the bright sunlight. He felt sure his hair and moustache were a fright, but that was a fleeting thought, and far from his highest priority.

His captors, he now saw, were an elf and a human- both dark haired and northern-looking. In fact, the human may even have been from Tevinter. Presumably this was who had identified him as an altus mage.

“Well, then,” said the human. “Welcome to our camp.”

Their so-called camp was a little more substantial than that. The canvas tents pitched around the clearing where they now stood looked to have been there quite some time. Someone had constructed a makeshift spit over a fire pit in the middle, and logs had been dragged in for chairs.

“Oh, you’re back.”

This latest comment was made by another elf, emerging from a tent. She had blonde hair, and strange markings on her face- _vallaslin_ , Dorian realised. He had seen very few elves marked so, and never up close.

“Yeah,” said the human. “And we brought a guest.”

“ _Guest_?” Dorian spluttered. “You abducted me and tied me up.”

“Involuntary guest,” said the human, shrugging.

“That’s a little rude,” said the blonde elf.

“He’s a mage,” the human explained. “We thought we could get him to come help us with the chief.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a second opinion,” said the blonde elf.

“Hold on,” Dorian interrupted. The dark-haired elf gave him an unfriendly look. “You kidnapped me and tied me up,” he forged on regardless, “because you want my _help_?”

“Yup,” said the blonde elf. “Our boss has been placed under an evil curse and we’re having trouble lifting it.”

“It’s not an _evil curse_ -” said the human.

“Well it’s definitely a curse, and it’s not exactly a _nice_ one, is it?” said the blonde elf.

“You’ll have to untie my hands for that, I’m afraid,” Dorian interrupted them again. “There’s also the little matter of me being dosed with magebane.”

The elf shrugged. “Magebane doesn’t stop your brain from working, does it?” she asked.

“Well, _no_ ,” said Dorian.

“Excellent,” said the human. “We’ll keep you dosed up, then. Want to come meet the Chief?”

–

The blonde elf introduced herself as Dalish, an extremely uncreative nickname if Dorian had ever heard one. The other elf was Skinner, apparently- a name which Dorian did not even want to guess the origin of- and the human was Krem.

“And together with the rest, we’re the Chargers!” said Dalish. She threw her arms out wide to encompass the entire camp.

“Ah, very impressive,” said Dorian. “Do you think you’ll be untying my hands any time soon?”

“Eh, no, what do you need hands for?” said Dalish. “C’mon, he’s in this tent over here.”

They led Dorian towards the biggest tent. Inside, a couple of bedrolls were stacked up. Lying down, head propped up on a rolled-up blanket, was the biggest Qunari that Dorian had ever seen.

“His name is The Iron Bull,” said Krem, “but we mostly just call him Chief.”

“He’s asleep then, I take it?” said Dorian.

“Nah,” said Krem. “That’s the curse. Poison. Whatever. It’s put him to sleep.”

“And you want me to figure out how to fix him, out of the goodness of my heart,” said Dorian.

“That’s the idea,” said Krem.

“With only my own best guess as to what’s actually wrong with him-” Dorian continued.

“Yep,” said Krem.

“- and with my hands tied up and my magic suppressed?” said Dorian.

“Ideally, yeah,” said Krema.

“Oh, good,” said Dorian. “Wonderful. How soon can I begin?”

–

Dorian knelt in the tent, and studied the inert form of the massive Qunari. To all intents and purposes, he may as well have been dead.

The sun made its way towards the horizon.

“I have no idea what’s wrong with him,” Dorian finally admitted.

Dalish, who turned out to be a mage of reasonable skill, had checked in on him at various points throughout the day. She had brought with her the Chargers’ healer, a man named Stitches. With his limited powers, Dorian had been able to confirm what the two of them told him, but very little more.

“We already know what’s wrong with him,” said Skinner. She’d spent the last hour or so sitting in the tent with him, playing idly with her knife. “We just need you to tell us how to fix it.”

“That’s not how magic works,” said Dorian, exasperated. “You can’t just throw mage at the problem and say here, fix it- if it were that easy, your so-called ‘archer’ would have solved it already!”

“Are you telling me you’re useless?” said Skinner.

“No, not at all!” said Dorian, hurriedly. “Give me time, I’m sure I can figure it out!”

“Glad to hear it,” said Skinner.

–

The Chargers gave him dinner- dried beef, stewed until it was soft again, cooked with some sort of wild tuber. It was a simple meal that Dorian would once have turned his nose up at- but now, it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks.

“You can sleep in the tent with the Chief,” said Dalish. “Y’know, in case you get a brainwave in the middle of the night.”

“Will you untie my hands so I can eat?” Dorian asked. “I promise I won’t try and run off or anything.”

“Yeah,” said Krem. “Guess that’s fair.”

–

Dorian feigned sleep for what seemed like an age.

The Chargers had finally fallen silent and retired to their tents. The fire was low and the sky was clouded.

The Iron Bull was a dark, featureless bulk in the middle of the tent.

Dorian did really feel rather bad about leaving him to his curse, but it wasn’t like it was his problem. The Chargers would probably be able to sort it out on their own.

Dorian slipped from the tent, and began to tiptoe his way through the camp. Too late, he noticed the gleam of elven eyes reflecting in the dim light.

“Evening, mage boy,” said Skinner.

“Oh,” said Dorian. “Ah-”

“Let me guess,” said Skinner. “You just needed to go take a piss, and then you were going to come right back?” She had a knife in her hands, as usual.

“Not to worry,” said Dorian. “I find the need has quite abandoned me.”

Skinner eyeballed him steadily.

“Good night,” said Dorian, and fled back inside the tent.

**Author's Note:**

> I am accepting fic and art prompts at grimark.tumblr.com. Come say hi!


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